


A Pair Equals Two

by shinkonokokoro



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-25
Updated: 2012-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-10 16:30:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinkonokokoro/pseuds/shinkonokokoro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's cursed, but he doesn't really care. He had a John Watson once, and somehow another one finds him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Pair Equals Two

When Sherlock first saw him, he thought, 'oh brilliant, another army doctor,' then asked, "Afghanistan or Iraq" to satisfy his curiosity. When the man proved impressed, he gave his spiel to express his lack of compliance with, indeed deviance from, social norms. The man was flustered, off-put, but not overly disgruntled, so Sherlock left him with his name and a wink before giving him the address of their future home. 

Real-estate had unfortunately become so expensive. 

  
  


The man showed, as predicted. He was intrigued, Sherlock could tell. Bored out of his mind too. He could satisfy on both accounts. 

"Looks...nice once you clear away all of the junk."

"I could perhaps tidy a bit," he said, moving a few things to make the point. He saw understanding bloom in the man's eyes and felt unashamed of his mess. "So?"

"Um."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh come. Surely this is enough of an impression. Have I put you off or not?" He demanded, honestly being unable to tell. A car door slammed outside. "Oh!" He exclaimed, completely missing any reply. "Another!"

"What?"

"A murder!" He grinned, rushing to the window, just in time to see Lestrade walk to their door. Mrs. Hudson would no doubt let him in. Sherlock remained by the window, the man's sputtering going unattended.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade pushed the door open.

"You need me."

"Yes," the DI sighed. "We need you."

He tamped down the grin and turned with a raised brow. "What's different?"

"The man in your flat for one."

The man in question straightened, military posture, leg obviously now forgotten again—he would have to fix that. "Of course," he said smoothly. "Lestrade, my new flatmate,..." He frowned. 

Lestrade looked at him a moment and then burst out laughing. "Didn't even ask the poor blighter's name?"

"That 'poor blighter' is standing right here," the man in question said with a furrowed brow. "I'm John. Watson. John Watson."

"Oh you've  _ got  _ to be joking," Sherlock groaned aloud as Lestrade snickered.

"I'm sorry," John said politely, clearly affronted. "Something...wrong? With that? And I haven't agreed to move in."

"Another one," Sherlock muttered. "Very well then." He waved a hand. "John Watson, of 221B Baker Street."

"Has a nice ring to it," Lestrade said devilishly. 

Poor John just looked confused. 

"Come on, John. We're going to see a murder scene," Sherlock scowled and stalked between them out the door.

"A murder scene!?"

Lestrade chuckled and followed him quickly. 

"John!" Sherlock called back to him. "Hurry  _ up _ !"

"What makes you think I'm coming?!" His footsteps echoed closer though as he thumped down the stairs. 

"Evidence," Sherlock said with a grin. Then ducked outside into the waiting cab and tugged John Watson in after him. Lestrade climbed into his squad car, shaking his head. 

  
  


Sherlock did his utter best at the crime scene, flouncing and showing off his brilliance.

"Like this one?" Lestrade asked with a coy grin.

Sherlock only sniffed and stalked away, ignoring Sally's dirty looks. He'd been alone for a long time now. Since his last John Watson had died early 1900s. Though to be honest, he'd not wanted to have another person at his side since Watson had died. Now was merely to appease necessity. 

Really the whole situation was ridiculous. While fascinating, it had long since run its course. But Sally had been a young witch at the time and, even if she wanted to, she wouldn't undo her curse. The banality of the situation rankled. A love curse of all things. Sherlock Holmes must find true love for him to regain his natural humanity. 

So while it was pleasing for this John Watson to flatter him and praise what Sherlock had always done, he figured he was more likely than not to see the year 3000. Which was fine. Mycroft had made himself indispensable in the government, in part to watch over Sherlock. Besides, he liked the power, and the with his unique position, he could guide the government over time. And Sherlock had the good Lestrade to entertain him over the years, so what use has Sherlock Holmes for love? 

Case solved he headed for home. 

It wasn't until he heard the door downstairs that he realised he'd left his new flatmate behind. Shrugging, he picked up his violin and played his first Watson's favourite. 

He had good luck with Watsons apparently. They always seemed to come back to him rather like a boomerang.

Slamming the door, his second Watson glared at him fiercely. "Right. So. First time I’m going to forgive. This happens again? You running off? I'm done."

Several things ran through his head as he stopped his playing. Watson was apparently staying, the man lived up to his name, Sherlock was surprisingly unsurprised at being told off so soon in their relationship, and he still had to fix that limp. He smiled. "We’ll split the rent, and I'll cover damages due to my experiments."

"Mr. Holmes—"

"Oh do call me ‘Sherlock,’" he said, draping himself across his chair, violin still in hand.

"Fine  _ Sherlock _ , then..." Watson trailed off, thought derailed, just as Sherlock had planned. 

"There's a second bedroom upstairs. You would like that one? I’ve already taken the one downstairs.”

“Then why are you even asking?” Watson threw up a hand.

“If you’d like, I’d like you to come along on my cases. It is useful for me to have another pair of eyes when I’m doing my work. And if I’m not wrong, your therapist, an idiot, by the way, has instructed you to keep record of your life. So what better thing to write about than your new, exciting flatmate.”

Watson arched a brow. “Are you sure there’s enough room for me  _ and _ **** your ego?”

Sherlock looked at him, lips quirking before he laughed out loud. “I like you, Watson.”

“John,” he said quickly.

“Sorry?”

“Call me ‘John.’”

“Oh, right yes. Yes, of course....” War. The army. People were generally referred to by their surname. He sighed. The Christian name just felt so...intimate. “Very well. John.” A glance at the man told him that he felt the same. But stubbornness refused to allow John to take it back. Why would he? Sherlock was just calling him by his name. He ignored the man’s reactions for the time. “Now when are you moving your things in?”

  
  


Watson moved in fully before the week was out. 

Sherlock fixed his limp one day after that.

John killed a man for him the day after  _ that _ .

And then lectured him for the entire taxi ride home.

“ And don’t you  _ ever _ **** do that again!” Watson railed at a whisper. “If that  _ ever _ **** happens again—you going in without back-up, then I will—”

“ Oh you’ll  _ what _ , Watson...” Sherlock said, head craned towards the window. He jerked as the man grabbed his coat collar and yanked him in close.

“ If this is how things are going to be...” John threatened, his face centimetres from Sherlock’s. “I am  _ not _ **** going to be wasting my time,  _ worrying _ **** after your hide while we are flatmates. You invited me along, I said yes. You got rid of my limp, I am thankful. But if you think I am going to let another person die on my watch, then you are sorely wrong, and I will leave.”

“Seems to be your common threat,” Sherlock drawled.

“One I mean,” John said lowly, shaking him.

Brows lifting even as he grinned slightly, Sherlock turned more towards Watson. “I can see that you do.” He gripped John’s wrist, tugging at it to release himself. “Very well,  _ John _ . You shall know my intents. Do scenarios where I don’t know until the moment of count?”

“Stop trying to find loopholes already,” John muttered, letting him go and sitting back in the seat. “You know what I mean.”

Sherlock hummed. He did. But the man was frighteningly fun to tease. Crossing his legs, Sherlock pulled his mobile out, tapping out messages to irk Lestrade until they got home. Life, surprisingly, settled down for a few weeks. He got bored. Unfortunately, the option of cocaine had become less and less acceptable as the years went on. So he went without. Without the morphine as well. In fact, by this time he'd given up on all of his recreational drugs. Just as well. He remembered Watson had never approved anyway. 

He did not, however, give up on his smoking.

So when John came downstairs to find him cheerfully smoking, he pitched yet another fit, rambling on to near apoplectic about how they were bad for you, cancer, illness, bad if you were going to be running and chasing after criminals, et cetera. Sherlock didn't mention to him that he was essentially immortal until the curse was lifted. So he bore john's raving until the man had the gall to swipe his cigarette (not as dignified as a pipe, but those were harder to come by) from his mouth.

"You listening to me at all, Sherlock?!"

"Watson!" Sherlock cried, astounded and indignant.

"’John!’ It's ‘John!’ How many times do I have to tell you that! Why do you keep calling me by my last name like we're in some Victorian drama!"

Sherlock looked at him coldly, stood, and flounced to him room.

"Oh. Right. Great! Sherlock Holmes! The giant child!" John called after him.

Sherlock slammed his door.

He stayed there until mid-morning the next day. Actually sleeping and spending some time reorganising his costume closet. He made a pile of the things he didn’t want or couldn’t use any longer and stuffed them all in a bag for the bins. Sock index recalibrated and pants ordered now in colour, Sherlock lazed on his bed until he fell asleep to wake the next day to John knocking on his door.

“Come in,” he croaked.

“Jesus, you sound awful.”

“Thank you, Watson.”

“Again with the ‘Watson’ thing...” John shook his head, holding out a mug of tea. “Where does that come from?”

Sherlock took the tea and sipped it, sighing with a small smile. Perfect. “How well you know me.”

John arched a brow. “Sorry?”

“Never mind. Anything interesting in the paper you picked up?”

John blinked. “How did you—never mind. No, nothing interesting in the paper. You going to come down for breakfast?”

“I might.”

“You need to eat.”

Things really hadn’t changed... Sherlock sighed. Watsons. Always the same, it seemed. Until they went off and got married and left you. Handing the mug back to John, he rolled off the bed gracefully and took his tea back. “Take the rubbish down, will you?” And then left him to go attend to the lips in the freezer.

  
  


Watson turned out to be just as useful (perhaps even more indispensable) as his predecessor. He had stuck around thusfar longer than Sherlock’s first Watson had. John never seemed to catch a break with the ladies who inevitably found him rather attractive for some reason. And there was no Mary Morstan. In fact, John was incredibly devoted to him, his safety, and his general well-being. He was loyal and unwavering in his support of him in public. It was a... Well. Watson in the past had been supportive and most admiring. But this Watson—John—was rarely small in his vocal venerations. He would loudly tell others off for Sherlock’s sake. Though, he was also not quiet about his complaints either. Something his other Watson had been. And it was refreshing. New. To have someone tell him off who would, the same afternoon tell him he was brilliant in front of eight strangers. Or tell him he knew he’d figure it out in front of the Yard. He was incredibly different, however, once Sherlock memorised all his nuances. This Watson was made of a bit sterner stuff. More prone to violence, though carefully carefully controlled. Incredibly kind which did, apparently, draw the women. Not that they always reciprocated. That was sometimes Sherlock’s fault, sometimes John’s fault. Willing to do nearly anything for Sherlock, willing to do  _ anything _ **** when he really needed it. And, after a year and a half, it seemed, willing to stay with him. He smiled, feeling... What was this? Contentment? Peace?

He was still thinking about how to quantify the emotion when he and John arrived at the crime scene. Sally gave him dirty looks as usual, and Lestrade grinned, ribbing him not unkindly.

“What’s that all about?”

“Oh you noticed?” Sherlock said absently, investigating a set of footprints, leading into the other room of the house. 

“ Sherlock,” John drawled. “How could I  _ not  _ notice? They’re hardly being subtle. What’s the joke.”

“You,” he said, distracted, frowning his way around the corner. “The killing was recent. The killer was someone close to the victim. Heard noises. Frightened himself... It was a panicked murder....”

“Me?” John asked, sounding hurt.

Sherlock spared a half-second to look at him. “Oh no. They’re making fun of  _ me _ **** because of you.” 

John surprised him with an indignant, “What?!”

He waved a hand at him. “Never mind, Watson. It’s not important. They’re merely being insufferable.” Sherlock straightened. “So if the victim is less than an hour dead... Hid...”

“Wait, Sherlock...”

“Watson, hush!” Sherlock crept into the room, peering into the corners. The killer was still here.

“What are you looking for?”

"John!" Sherlock barked then suddenly pitched forward with a breathy gust of surprise at the punch to his back. 

He was aware of John calling his name, catching him, and then nothing.

  
  


When Sherlock woke next, it was to the sound of heart-monitors and low murmuring. 

"Sherlock?" John said gently.

"John," he sighed, glad the man was at his side. "What..."

"You were shot, Sherlock." He felt a hand over his, warm and dry. "We almost lost you."

"I'm never lost," he murmured. Drugs. There were drugs in his system. When he cracked his eyes, John was there, hopeful and worried at the same time.

He huffed softly. "You almost died, Sherlock; just take it easy."

"Can't die, John..."

John laughed again, but the sound was strained. "Even you can die, Sherlock."

"Can't. Cursed. Like that pathetic creature from the tale of Belle..." He probably shouldn't be telling John this information, but he couldn't be arsed to care right now. And his mind felt so floaty.

"Sherlock... The Beauty and the Beast? What are you going on about? You're still on pretty heavy medication..." John looked concerned. He had no need to look concerned. 

He sighed, turning his hand to grip John's, impart the significance of what he was saying to the man. "Sally Donovan, better know as Salicia Donovinas, is a witch. A wicked wicked witch, and she cursed me."

"Alright, Sherlock," John said indulgently. "These are fanciful stories, even for you."

"John," he groaned, suddenly needing him to understand. "I don't  _ tell  _ fanciful stories!"

"Shh, relax! Sherlock! Easy. You almost died. Easy."

Closing his eyes again, Sherlock panted softly. Wait. "Say that again."

"What?"

"Again," Sherlock demanded.

“Relax? You almost died? Easy?”

“I almost died?”

“ _ Yes _ , Sherlock! That’s what I’ve been trying to  _ tell _ **** you!”

He blinked. John’s face. Tired. Hasn’t slept. Worried. Bags under his eyes, hair mussed. Same jumper. “I...almost died.” John rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to make some sort of waspish comment, but Sherlock continued. “I almost died! That means...” He gaped at John. “That means that the curse is broken! But I don’t—You don’t believe me.” 

“You’re ranting, Sherlock,” John said with an affectionate smile. 

“Do you love me, Watson?” The question surprised them both, but Sherlock could always blame it on the morphine later. Aah, morphine. 

“Wh-what?” John spluttered.

“ John Watson, do you love me?” he pressed, feeling almost desperate with the need to know. Had he gone and fallen in love without even knowing it? To  _ John _ ?

“Well, I... I suppose... I like you, of course. Wouldn’t have lived with you this long if not....”

“ But do you  _ love _ **** me?” he gripped John’s hand hard.

“ Sherlo—o-ow—Sherlock!” John pulled his hand away, cradling it near his chest. “What is  _ wrong _ **** with you?”

Rolling his eyes with a pained groan, he rambled out, “I was cursed to be inhuman—to be immortal, until I found love, and then I would resume my natural living pattern! And if I almost  _ died _ **** that means I am no longer immortal! And if I’m no longer immortal, it means I’ve fallen in love! Simple, John! Simple! And you’re the only person I...” He cut himself off, staring at John’s face, expression telling him he was no much more interested in the proceedings. 

“You... love me?” John asked quietly.

“You’re the only person with whom I’ve held a near-daily correspondence, have not become irreparably irritated with, and you have borne my company willingly for extended periods of time,” he muttered. “Therefore it is logical that I may have developed some...affection for your person whilst you have been...in my company—”

John laughed.

“Why are you laughing?”

“God, Sherlock! You’re treating this like some sort of Victorian love confession. Sherlock, it’s fine. I--”

“John, you’re not believing me about how old I am...”

John blinked, having, thusfar, been able to ignore that part of the conversation. “Well.”

“I was born in 1854, John,” he said stiffly. “Seeing as it is 2012, this coming January would make it my 159th birthday.”

“You’re not serious.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “When have you known me to be anything less than serious.”

“Um.”

“ Exactly. Now, seeing as you  _ still _ **** don’t believe me, I assume I’ll have to ask the witch to tell you herself it’s no joke. And undoubtedly prove her powers to you.”

“But Mycroft—”

“Is my natural brother and likes where he is because he likes being in control. And will, no doubt, stay in his current position until the Empire falls.” He folded his arms across his chest.

“You’re...serious?” John's spine straightened as he sat back in his chair.

“ _ Now _ **** he gets it...” Sherlock huffed.

“So wait. You were seriously cursed by a witch—who is apparently Sally Donovan. And you were born in the 1800s.”

“ _ Yes _ , John. That's what I'm trying to tell you.”

“And you're also trying to tell me now that you love me.”

He dropped his eyes and scowled at his feet beneath the hospital sheet. 

“Because if you are...” John said slowly. “Then I... I would have to admit that I think I'm in love with you as well.”

“You think?”

“Well.” John picked up his hand again with a small smile. “No. I'm certain.”

Sherlock's eyes roved over him. He meant it. Wat— _ John _ meant it. “You're certain.”

“I just said.” John's cheeks pinked faintly. 

“Oh...”

“Sherlock? Sherlock, you okay?”

“Fine...” he murmured, feeling like he was half dreaming. “This is wonderful.”

“Oh Christ... They put you on morphine...”

“Yes, John. It's lovely...”

“Listen, we'll talk about this all la—”

“No need. It's all sorted,” Sherlock said, drifting, his lips tilting up. 

“Alright,” John returned quietly. “You sleep then. I'll be here.”

 

Sherlock woke the next day and raised such a fuss that they allowed him to go home. Which involved lots of fussing from John, harsh looks from John, exasperation from John, sly remarks from Lestrade (until John snapped at him, telling him 'I know already!'), and disbelieving grumbles from Sally.

They finally got him set up in his bed, however, some tea, and a sandwich. John had suggested soup, but Sherlock snapped at him, telling him he wasn't an invalid, he could have solid food.

That of course got him another glare from John, but also a sandwich. And John perching on the edge of his bed to watch him eat it.

“I'm going to be fine, you know.”

John looked away. “That may be, but it still worried me.”

Silence swirled around his room, John shifting on his bed. “Oh stop it! You're being...strange. And you've no need to be.”

“I don't know what you want from me!”

“I want you to stay with me!” Sherlock snapped back. 

“Fine! I'm staying!”

“Good!” Another few minutes of silence between them and Sherlock reached out to grab John's hand. Gave it a small tug.

John watched it, looking up at Sherlock before he smiled softly and scooted up against the headboard next to him. “So you lived through... all sorts of exciting stuff, didn't you.”

“What?” His mind felt slow. Didn't know where Watson was leading.

“You know. The industrial revolution. The roaring twenties. Both World Wars. The moon landing. Invention of the internet.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

John looked at him, arched brow. “And you didn't find that fascinating?”

“Oh it was all fascinating. But people unerringly stay the same, Watson, and in that respect, nothing changes.”

“Okay. Is the 'Watson' thing a hold-over from... I don't know. Your youth? You always call Lestrade by his last name too”

“No, not exactly.” He shifted, wincing at the pain in his back.

“Then what's it from?”

He rolled his eyes, not exactly wanting to get into the story. “I... There was another John Watson that lived with me...”

“Ah... So I'm your type? 'John Watson?'” the man said.

Sherlock looked at him sharply before realising he was teasing. He sighed. “No, not like that, John. We were...flatmates. Like ourselves, yes, but then he married and moved out.”

“Oh.” Then John's face softened. “Sherlock.”

“John.”

“I really don't see myself marrying. Especially considering the fact that I can't seem to keep anyone around. Not always being your fault.”

“I know.”

“So I figure, if I'm admitting to loving you, I shouldn't really need to go anywhere else for that. Besides. We can marry now; it's legal,” John said cheerfully. Then paused. “Sorry. That's...moving a bit too fast...”

“Um.” He honestly didn't know what to say to that one. 

“Right. Well we'll take it one day at a time,” John said quietly, embarrassed.

Sherlock waited through John's embarrassment.

“Are we alike?”

“Surprisingly,” Sherlock drawled.

“Oh. Really?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about him?”

Sherlock sighed, allowing himself to lean onto John. “Another time. I will. You have my word.”

John tittered.

“Now what?”

“I always wondered why you were so formal sometimes.”

Blinking, Sherlock looked at John in wonder. “You're asking far less questions than I would have expected.”

John shrugged. “I take it these curse things aren't so common...”

“No,” Sherlock drawled.

“Then I really don't need to worry. Sally's not going to... kill me or anything for knowing.”

“As if I'd let her.”

Smiling at him warmly, John raised a hand and cupped Sherlock's cheek to bring him close for a soft kiss. “So that's what that feels like,” John said when he pulled away.

“You've thought about it before.”

Ducking his head, John bobbed his head. “Every once in a while.”

His heart felt warm and snug inside his breast. “Is this what love feels like?”

“I don't know,” John said, tugging him close against his chest. “What does it feel like.”

Placing a hand over John's heart, he relaxed into the hold, the touch feeling exceptionally nice. “Warm. Safe. Too big.”

“That's you, Sherlock Holmes. A heart too big.”

“Don't mock me!” He tried to pull back. But John held him fast.

“I'm not mocking you, Sherlock,” he said gently, pushing his fingers gently through Sherlock's curls. “You do have a heart too big. Otherwise you wouldn't do what you do, game or no. Now. You ought to get some sleep so you can heal more quickly.”

He muttered wordlessly, finding that perhaps this thing about love? Maybe wasn't so bad. Not if it meant being warmed from the inside and sharing another person's space. “You'll stay?”

“Yes, Sherlock,” John said softly. “I'll stay as long as you'll have me.”

Reassured, Sherlock nodded, managed a soft 'Good' and then drifted off to one of the best sleeps of his life. 


End file.
